


Exquisite Frustration

by Sunless_Garden



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Bondage, But probably should have negotiated beforehand, Consensual, M/M, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunless_Garden/pseuds/Sunless_Garden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes deduces that Watson has sensitive nipples, and decides to use it against him in bed. Never mind that they aren't actually in a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exquisite Frustration

I wake to the sound of a violin, as is common for most mornings after the conclusion of a successful case. Luckily, Holmes is actually playing a song - rather than just plucking at strings, as he is wont to do when one of his depressions begins to overcome him.

However, the music seems somewhat closer than usual.

I am startled from the hazy warmth of my half-dream state by a discordant note - Holmes must have decided that it is time for me to wake, as he does nothing without purpose. As soon as I am more awake than asleep, I am jarred by another incongruity - cool steel bands encircling my wrists, binding them to the headboard just above my shoulders. In such a way as to not aggravate my shoulder, of course.

I groan, refusing to open my eyes and give Holmes the satisfaction of my attention just yet. He often wants a captive audience upon the conclusion of an experiment - and while I am most often the chosen audience, I have never been quite so . . . captive, before.

"You better have a good reason for this."

Yes, my eyes are still closed - I will open them when I am good and ready, and not a second before. I do believe it is a Sunday, and as such, supposed to be my day of rest. I need all the rest I can get to keep up with my often vexingly brilliant friend.

"I always have a good reason, my dear Watson. Upon the successful conclusion of our latest case, I turned my attentions to some incongruities that have been bothering me for quite some time. Though I observed the facts closely, I have decided that I need more data before I can reach a final conclusion."

Well, I suppose I can open my eyes now - Holmes knows that I can never resist a puzzle. I blink my eyes open slowly, taking in his state of dress - or undress, as the case may be. Holmes has never obeyed rules of propriety, so I am not startled by the fact that he is still in his nightclothes. I am as well, though it is of course more understandable in my case - I am not able to rise from bed at the moment, never mind change into more suitable attire.

"Well?"

Is he not going to explain these so-called "incongruities"?

"Splendid. You are always so accommodating, Doctor - I knew you would not mind giving me the opportunity to collect the necessary data."

I do not believe I like the sound of that. My nervousness increases as Holmes does not answer my query as to what data he wishes to collect, merely sets aside his violin and starts striding towards where I am bound to the bed. I have not even had the chance to become annoyed by that yet, confused as I am. The nerve of this man, handcuffing me while I am sleeping!

But Holmes has always had too much nerve - nearly as much nerve as intelligence, sometimes, which can be a deucedly troubling combination. For me, especially.

"Holmes . . ."

He does not heed the warning tone in my voice - he simply leans over and begins to unbutton my nightshirt. I cannot help but blink up at him, and I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. Even though it appears as if Holmes is not looking at my face, I know he is cataloguing my every reaction.

"Holmes?"

Not warning this time, but uncertainty - I hate how vulnerable my voice sounds, as if I am some blushing virgin on her wedding night, frightened at the sight of her husband's penis. But it seems to connect with Holmes, as those beautifully clever hands of his pause at the last button of my shirt - fiddling with it a bit, staring at it as if it contained the answers to a particularly troubling case.

"If you truly want me to stop - at any time - say 'Norbury'. I will leave, and we will never speak of this again."

I open my mouth to ask what exactly "this" is, to ask whether "stop" or "no" would not work just the same, but then I think better of it. I trust my friend implicitly, and I have never questioned his methods before - if I wait, all will be revealed to me in time. For the moment, I simply remain silent.

After all, silence is one of the grand gifts that makes me invaluable as a companion, according to the man now pulling my last button from its hole and pushing my nightshirt back to expose my chest.

"Gorgeous . . ."

Had Holmes not intended for me to hear that soft mutter, I would not have - but there is something nearly shy about him, now. It is almost ironic, that he is the shy one even as I am bound, still and helplessly exposed to his gaze. And his touch, as he proves when those clever fingers move to brush against my right nipple. I gasp at the sensation, throwing my head back even as I feel my skin pucker under his fingers. I am beginning to get some idea of the data he wishes to collect.

He rubs a bit harder at my response, obviously pleased as he climbs onto the bed to straddle my prone form.

"Fascinating."

I cannot help but squirm under his heavy warmth, bucking my hips up to no avail - it seems he is interested in touching my chest and nothing else, as he does not allow me the contact elsewhere that I so crave. He brings his other hand up to join the 'experiment', rubbing and petting both nipples simultaneously, and then one or the other - obviously seeking to compare how I react to a range of different stimuli.

I cannot help but react - with sighs and wriggles and . . . I would deny whimpering, but it is essential - as a flatmate and friend of Sherlock Holmes - to always be brutally honest with myself. And it is a whimper that escapes my lips as he presses a nail to my left nipple, scraping lightly and watching intently as it puckers under his touch and gaze.

"Holmes."

That only makes him pinch - lightly and then harder as my breath hitches at the pleasurable pain. His other hand repeats the motion, and I bite my lip to suppress the scream as he twists.

"Holmes, please - oh, please."

I suppose that could be called a sob, though he does not pay it any mind. Instead, he bends his head down to lick, and the handcuffs rattle as I shudder, desperately trying to reach for him. Holmes scrapes his teeth lightly against my flesh in response, a chuckle escaping his throat and the vibrations only adding to the sensation.

"I need . . . oh, I need . . ."

He lets his weight drop heavily on my upper stomach to stop my squirming, even as he bites and I convulse and what is the word that would stop this torture again? But I do not use it, even as those devilishly clever lips trail light kisses to my other nipple before bestowing another bite. There will be marks later, I know - my skin is almost ridiculously fair. I wonder if he will be pleased at the sight - if he will come back to look, at all, or if this is just a one-time thing.

Holmes must notice that my thoughts are wandering a bit, for he bites down again, harder this time - and I cannot help but attempt to writhe again, though he has me pinned solid.

"Holmes . . ."

If there are tears in my eyes, I refuse to let them fall - even as he pulls back a bit and nuzzles my chest. And oh - he has not shaved in quite a while, and every nod of his head rubs his stubble against my sensitive nipple, bright red with his bite marks and still wet with his saliva.

Holmes utterly owns me, and he knows it. Knows that I would do anything in this moment, if only he would relieve this exquisite frustration.

But still he does not touch my erection, just continues his damnable teasing. I am panting and moaning and behaving like a wanton whore, even as his mouth returns to suckle so determinedly, as if my nipples could produce milk from just his sheer will alone. Perhaps I will produce milk because of his mouth, but it certainly will not be from my chest - my erection is straining against my flannels, and I can feel the wet spot spreading on the fabric from my pre-ejaculate. I squirm at the tease of it, trying to rub against the material that is just moving with me.

If he would just touch me . . . 

And yes, I am begging once again. Begging with my body and with my words. Mumbles and moans and pleads and - and the devil just grins at me.

"Holmes!"

He pinches my left nipple sharply at the petulant tone in my voice, and I cannot help the shudder that is my only response.

"Please. Please! For goodness sake . . ."

The begging again - he is obviously pleased, as he returns to his task. Every lick and nibble and pinch and twist. It all goes straight to my groin, but it is not enough. I need more - but he refuses to give it to me, and he refuses to let me free to provide it for myself. I could say the word. I could, but then he would leave - and that is the last thing I want. I just want him to touch me, really touch me.

But he does not, just continues his ministrations, and I know that in a few minutes I will orgasm in my flannels like an untried adolescent. The shame burns bright on my cheeks, and Holmes must somehow deduce my desperation - he is kind enough to pause his tortures for a moment to pull my pants down to my knees.

"So beautiful."

His comment is accompanied by a light brush of his hands against my achingly over-sensitive little nubs of flesh, bright red all over and redder where his teeth dug in. Every touch makes me shiver, and I close my eyes against the intensity of his gaze - devouring my every response as if he is a starving man and I am a buffet laid out for the taking.

He leans down - just puffing his warm breath against my skin. But it meets the moisture he has left behind, and I cannot help but wriggle and buck, trying to find something - anything - to rub against. Holmes chuckles at me again - and I would be glad of his laughter, if I had half a mind left - and nibbles oh-so-delicately at the very tip.

My breath catches, even as my eyes squeeze more tightly shut. A shudder wracks my frame, from my curled toes to my shivering thighs to my clenching abdomen and my arms desperately straining for release. But my nipples - oh, they cannot take any more stimulation without the pain crossing the line from exquisite to unbearable, and Holmes seems to know this, locking his teeth on my throat instead and worrying the skin roughly. The pleasure seems to move to my penis last - almost but not quite an afterthought as my release is wretched almost painfully from my genitals.

I am left gasping for air, staring blankly up at the ceiling as twitches wrack my body - the aftershocks of the most powerful orgasm I have ever experienced. I cannot imagine what would have happened had Holmes actually touched me below the waist.

He gracefully removes himself from straddling me, and I am fascinated by the way his own unfulfilled erection strains against his nightclothes. I would be embarrassed by the disparity of our pleasures, had I not been handcuffed to my own headboard. Holmes pulls my flannels all the way down and off me, and then he leans back in a blatantly self-satisfied way, as if admiring a masterpiece of sculpture or painting.

"Thank you, my dear Watson. The data you provided will be of incalculable import to my experiment."

I blink, somewhat hurt about the reminder of his "experiment". He must read as much on my face, for he hastens to reassure me. Though I am not so sure that I am reassured, as his words are something to the effect of: "Do not worry, John - I shall need much, much more data before I can reach a satisfactory conclusion."

Especially considering the fact that he still has not seen fit to unlock these handcuffs.


End file.
